It's a
mystery. I think it's because she's so
POWERFUL. Every female artist now has to
be empowered,
and every pop song has to be some anthem with a title like "Survivor"
or "Roar" or "Brave" or "I Never Liked You Anyway, John
Mayer." It's bizarre, given that
there's never been a group of people more empowered than the current generation
of Americans. Your average Katy Perry
fan is a 12-year-old suburban girl whose dad has already given her a down
payment on a new Land Rover. What the
fuck do you need to be empowered for, lady?
If anything, you have TOO MUCH power.
Just look at that Kelly Clarkson song "Stronger" that contains
this lyric...

I don't quite know when Lady Gaga evolved from talented pop star into the world's least…
Read more Read more

Thanks to
you, I'm finally thinking about me!

Yes, because
self-adoration has always been a problem with the current generation of young
Americans. Thank God someone is finally
telling them to like themselves. This is
all a giant conspiracy by BIG BUSINESS.
They produce the pop song that tells you that you're a special little
snowflake that deserves the best in life, and then they sell that song at a
WalMart or in the iTunes store so that you can buy it along with $5,000 worth
of other pointless merchandise. It is a
TREAT YO SELF economy, and Beyonce is one of the most valuable spokesladies on
behalf of it.

Miles:

If animals could talk, do you think more
people would date/marry their pets?

Probably. There's already a significant "crazy pet
owner" population in this country—people who will dig a switchblade into
your eye if you happen to point out that their dog should be on a leash inside
the Baskin Robbins. So it's not exactly
a stretch to think that people who already consider their pets to be lifetime
companions would take it a step further if oral communication were
introduced. Birds can talk, and I don't
even want to know the number of Floridians who have probably tried to jam a
parrot up their ass just because Polly could holla back whenever they walked in
the door.

HOWEVER, I think
part of the reason that people love their pets so much is specifically because
they can't talk. You can yap all day to some fucking dog and
the dog won't cut you off or disagree with you or beg you to shut up. It'll just sit there and pant and you can
pretend that it empathizes with you when all it wants is a teaspoon of peanut
butter. It's a simpler relationship than
the ones we have with other humans.
People construct a deep relationship with their pet out of that
silence. If your dog could talk, you
might argue with it more. You might grow
to dislike it more than you ever would if it had just kept its trap shut. People might be more prone to marrying or
fucking their dogs if they could talk, but they also might be more prone to
killing them or giving them away. Imagine
going to the dog pound and hearing every fucking dog there talk like a homeless
person. You'd never rescue some doggie
hobo. It's right to the injection room
for him!

By the way, if cats
could talk, they'd say FUCK YOU all day long, so no one would own them, let
alone marry them.

Scott:

How many average adult males would it take
to beat Adrian Peterson at tug-of-war?

Three or four. It's no small ability to have double or
triple the strength of the average human.
So even though I'd like to think—particularly as a homer—that it would
take 10 men to pull a world class athlete like Peterson into the mud, it
probably wouldn't take more than a few.
To singlehandedly beat even two guys at tug of war is mighty impressive.

By the way, tug of
war sucks. It's humiliating. It destroys your hands. And everyone spends hours negotiating who
gets to be anchor.

Jesse:

Do you think that country leaders
(presidents, rulers, etc) use email to communicate with one another? Does
Barry O start his day by logging into Outlook and opening emails from "Vladimir.putin@russia.org"?

For security
reasons, the answer is probably no. It
would be too easy for those emails to fall into the hands of Eddie Snowden or
some other GLORY BOY leaker. And it
would be too easy for a President to email a joke that translates poorly
("Hey Vlad, I'm gonna c— in your sister's c—-!") and ends up
starting World War III. These
international communications are remarkably delicate. There is a ceremony and phrasing to every
interaction that requires months of planning and strategy. You can't blow that all by opening up an
email exchange and letting the President send Putin links to I CAN HAZ
CHEEZBURGER. Something would go wrong. I bet Putin's sarcasm translates poorly in
text. "Let's kill ALL the
dissidents HAHAHAHAHA."

Thus, most
communication between first world leaders has to take place over the phone or
even in person, at great expense to the taxpayer. It's better this way, frankly. If you meet someone face to face, you're much
more likely to get along with them and see things from their perspective. If Presidents only used the Internet to
communicate, they would end up bombing Russia just for the LULZ.

Garrison:

Is it rude to ask
your peers how much money they make? I graduated from college last May and just
started my first real person job last week. Since news has been getting around
about me starting work, I have been getting a lot of people asking how much
money I make.

They have? That's crazy.
It's rude as shit to ask people what they make. If everyone knew how much money everyone else
made, we'd all end up killing each other.
Look at pro athletes. Everyone
knows exactly how much money they make, and all it does is breed resentment in
the fan and anger in the player because fans are resentful. You shouldn't ask other people what they make
because you will IMMEDIATELY regret the answer. Either they make way more than you and now you
hate them, or they make way too little and you feel hopeless for your future
prospects. There's no good answer. It's strictly a DON'T ASK DON'T TELL
situation.

Hell, in a lot of
countries, it's rude to even ask people what they DO. That's the number one thing I gotta hear from
snooty foreigners and snooty Americans who just came back from fucking
Europe. "Oh, in France, they don't
ask people about their jobs. It's
horribly rude." Well, excuse me for
trying to find one goddamn anchor for a polite conversation. What else am I supposed to ask people at a
cocktail party, how much child porn they own?
Don't be ridiculous. Anyway,
don't ask people what they make. That's
a dick move.

Vance:

I'm moving in with my girlfriend, which is
mainly a good thing. However, the move itself is a huge problem for a very
specific and kind of gross reason. I have a queen-sized mattress that we're
going to bring into her place and store away and I'm very worried about moving
it. Reason being, I used to date a girl who would SQUIRT every time she had an
orgasm, meaning one side of mattress is stained with the dirty ghost of
love-making's past. So I should just flip the mattress over and hide that side,
right? WRONG! The other side of the mattress is stained with period blood
left behind by a friend-of-a-friend that I allowed to stay in my room while I
was for a short period of time. What do I do?

The obvious answer
is to get a new mattress. But mattresses
are expensive! And it takes a long time
to break one in so that it has just the right amount of curvature and/or dried
smegma!

I think you can
probably pass off both the blood and the old vaginal drippings as your own
bodily fluids. Your girlfriend isn't a
forensic scientist. You can't just look
at some dried stain and know immediately that it came from some kind of mutant clitorical
fountain. If you blush and get embarrassed
and say it's an old pee stain, she'll probably believe you. Of course, she'll just make you buy a new one
anyway because EWWW I DON'T WANT TO SLEEP ON YOUR PEE EWWWW.

Moving in with a
woman means finding out that you are in for a lifetime of buying very expensive
replacements for things you didn't know you had to replace. She'll make you replace the mattress, and the
chairs, and that coffee table you liked, and your couch (it simply won't do),
and your car, and your apartment. The
rest of your life will be a desperate chase to pay for upgrading all of the
things she wants you to upgrade. ENJOY!

My first guess
would be the '60s and '70s rockers because of that era's casual attitudes towards
venereal disease and/or birth control, but come on now. I don't think either of those things have
stopped Justin Bieber from nailing every last inch of Brazilian hooker trim he
can get his delicate little hands on. They're
ALL historic pussy hounds, and I doubt that one group wildly outpaces the
other. Even some random guy from Third
Eye Blind probably did all right for himself.
It's all about your standards and how much your appetite can
handle. I've always wanted to believe
that the manlier your music is (Josh Homme for President!), the greater amount
of tail you're able to pull in, but that's a lie. Glen Campbell was a freak. And even John Mayer gets his. As Eddie Murphy said, "Just sing. That's the key to it."

Jake:

What if the rings in MMA fights were bigger
than they are now? What if the ring was hundred feet wide and long? What would
happen? What could guys do at a full sprint?

You wouldn't want
that. Guys can still get up a decent
head of steam in the Octagon at its present dimensions. Making the ring bigger just gives guys more
of an opportunity to run away from each other, and you don't want that. You want them to be forced into combat. You want one guy to be able to pin another
guy in a corner and start wailing away at him (hence, an octagon. More sides means more corners!). You don't want to give people room to
escape. YOU WANT BLOOD.

HALFTIME!

Mike:

So when I take a shower, I follow the same
pattern/routine with the bar of soap - left arm, right arm, mid-section, left
leg, right leg (of course, saving wang and taint for last). Throwing out the
last bits, does this pattern suggest that my right ankle is the dirtiest part
of my body? And my left shoulder is the cleanest?

Not
necessarily. Like many people, I only
give a cursory wash to my lower legs and feet because a) They're hard to reach!
and b) I assume that all of the soapy residue dripping down from my soaking
wet, sexy torso acts as its own cleansing process. I think that the cleanest part of your body,
judging by your showers habits, will ALWAYS be your genitals. If men washed every part of their bodies as
thoroughly as they washed their testicles, we could eradicate all worldwide
diseases. I really get in there, because
it's crazy fun. Much more fun than
trying to wash my upper back, which hasn't been washed by hand once in my
lifetime. I just hope the shampoo lather
I rinse out does the job for me. And you
know what? It probably does.

I actually start
out soaping my chest and belly, and I try to work up as much lather as possible,
and then I use that lather to give myself a fake beard because LATHER BEARDS
RULE. Your body is the canvas with which
to paint your body in soapy goodness.

Tommy:

What would you pick if given the choice:
getting half your tongue chopped off or half your dick chopped off? No
pain meds or numbing agents, and in both scenarios it's completed with one expert Iron Chef
hack.

Probably should add you are forced to
choose one scenarios or your family will be killed.

JESUS CHRIST! I guess you have to pick your tongue because you
don't want to spend the rest of your life with a stump between your legs. I should note, though, that I saw a dude's
tongue get cut out in Caligula and it
scarred me for life. Do not watch that
movie. Do not watch ANY movie that features manual tongue removal. I squirm when I have to look at one of my own
canker sores in the mirror. I can't even
imagine how much worse it is to have your tongue cut out. And the worst part is that you can try to
scream, BUT NOW YOU HAVE NO TONGUE.

Brian:

What percentage of women walking around would show you their boobs if you just
asked nicely enough? It's more than zero isn't it?

Are you allowed to
go somewhere private for the viewing, or is it right there in the street? It's a little bit more than zero, but not by
much. We were on the Kid
Rock cruise for GQ and there was a lady who flashed her boobs in the
cafeteria whenever people asked, but people—regardless of gender—are usually
either too offended (justifiably!) or too shy to whip out their privates for
display to strangers. It's cold, and
most people just have a natural instinct to cover up.

Think about
it. What if you were walking on the
street and someone—anyone—asked to see your penis, right then and there? You, Mr. Big Macho Dick? You'd have to think about it. What if they want to chop it off and sell it
on the black market? This penis isn't
just for ANYONE, you know. It would have
to be '80s Samantha Fox asking for me to whip it out without hesitation.

This is a constant
source of curiosity for men. Men like
sex and want it all the time and don't want to have to dance around to get
it. They want to just ASK for sex and
ask for free bewbs and women don't work that way because it takes a certain
level of trust, and also a deeper level of attraction, for them to just get
right to it. Now, that's not always
true. Some women will go right for
it. It's just that you won't ever meet
them when you're in high school, because high school is cruel and unfair.

Anonymous:

What if you found out you're actually the son of one of your
favorite vintage pornstars? Would
you still watch her material?

No.

By the way, there's
a whole story to be done about kids who grow up with parents who are or were
porn stars. I bet half of them end up
doing custodial work at the local monastery.
I'd move to fucking Alaska, or anywhere where people wear the maximum
amount of clothing.

Brian:

Given the large number of regional and
nationally televised games, what are the odds that a sportscaster somewhere has
sharted while on the air? Basketball and hockey are during the prime cold
and flu season, plus all of them travel so much they have to pick up a bug
somewhere along the line. If it hasn't happened yet, what is your
power rankings of the most likely candidates to shart on air?

Well obviously, Gus
Johnson is the most likely candidate.
He's a danger to explode with happy diarrhea anytime there's a first
down during a regional Big 12 telecast.
OMG IOWA STATE IS NOW IN OKLAHOMA TERRITORY SHARRRRRTTTTTTTT.

I think it's
possible that it's happened a couple of times.
My top choice would be Howard Cosell, because he was a drunk and a lout
and wouldn't have thought twice about shitting his pants in the booth and
forcing Dandy Don to sit there for three hours, huffing the fumes. He was not a considerate man.

Of course, I have
to disqualify any broadcaster who might be elderly and suffering from
incontinence, like a Dick Stockton or a Verne Lundquist. I'm sure one of those guys spends every
weekend filling an overnight Depends while working a local Big East basketball
game. You have to be compassionate in
that instance. It's not like ol' Verne
wanted that colostomy bag strapped to his thigh. It's just a byproduct of having six feet of
small intestine surgically removed.

These days, with
greater scrutiny of broadcasters and analysts, I bet it's extremely rare for an
announcer to literally shit himself while on the air. That's something that happens to you only
one, maybe two times, during the course of your adulthood. What are the odds of it happening right when
you're talking to a nationally televised audience? Actually, God is cruel and would plan it that
way, but that's not the point. I doubt that
a genuine shart has been sharted on the air in a nationally televised sporting
event more than once over the past ten years.
A real shart, not some tiny Hershey squirt.

Erix:

If an average guy were to go on dates with 100 average girls, how many do you think he'd be compatible with?

It depends on his
age. If he's 21 or so, the
answer is, like, four. Because men and
women at that age are pickier and more irritating in general. If you make the guy 42, he'd probably
be compatible with half of them, because older people looking for a mate tend
to be more forgiving. "Well, he's
got that third eye in the center of his forehead. But he DOES have health insurance, so that's
not a bad trade!" People get more
pragmatic about sex and relationships as they get older. No blossoming couple in their forties waits
three dates to have sex. Hell, they'd
barely get through dessert the first night out before running home to eat each
other's genitals. At that age, you take
what the defense gives you.

Katie:

I have a coworker who, everyday,
tells me that I look tired. Today's insult was, "you still look
tired." How do I nicely tell her to STFU?

You tell her,
"Shut the fuck up."
The worst is when you're hungover and some idiot co-worker revels in
your misery. LOOKS LIKE YOU HAD A ROUGH
NIGHT! No shit, lady. Why don't you go home and pet your talking cat?

Mike:

How many passes has Peyton thrown in his
life? I'm talking about games, warm-ups, practices, off-season, growing
up, high school, Pop Warner, the whole bit? Over 1 million right?
Has to be.

In his pro career
(regular season only), Peyton Manning has thrown 8,162 passes. At Tennessee, he threw 1,381 passes. In high school, he threw 452 passes. Now that's 9,995 passes in regulation
alone. You probably throw the ball five
hundred times a day in practice just to prepare for the 30 or 40 throws
you'll have to make in the game.

Manning is 37. Let's assume ol' Archie made him start
throwing the ball at age two, so that he would one day grow up to be a great
pro quarterback and make up for his father's WILDLY OVERRATED professional
career. That's 35 years of throwing the
ball through a hanging tire, playing flag football in the backyard and
purposely drilling Eli in the nuts, and pantomiming his throwing motion while
studying tape of the Pulaski High offense.
If he threw the ball 500 times a day, that would give him over
six million lifetime throws. And this is
Peyton Manning, who is an insane person, so that number still seems low.

Derek:

What if it comes
out that Incognito and Martin were lovers?
"Lord of Discipline"?

Well then, the
Earth would explode. I can't think of a
worse way for open homosexuality to be introduced to the NFL. Even the Te'o case ended up being less
divisive. Kerry Rhodes still remains
unsigned, so you can imagine some GM taking a look at the Martin/Incognito mess
and being like DURRRRR THESE MEME-TEXTING GAYS WOULD BE A DISTRACTION IN MY
LOCKER ROOM DURRRRR. These husky gays with
all their drama! NO PLACE IN FOOTBALL
FOR THAT.

I actually think
that, apart from that, this would be the BEST explanation for how strange this
story has gotten. I would just be like,
"Oh! Well, that explains it!" and
then go about my business. I assume
angry lovers threaten to fuck each other's sisters all the time. I had an ex-girlfriend. I know how these things work!

Email of the week!

Ryan:

A little while back, I was sharing a
3-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with two guys I didn't know (both were
subletting from my actual roommates for the month.) One morning, I woke up with
the usual rumblings in my gut, but wasn't overly concerned- having lived alone
for so long before moving to NYC, I was used to living on the edge a bit when
it came to taking care of my shitting needs; that is, I was accustomed to
waiting until it was an absolute emergency to run to the bathroom to shit. More
cathartic that way.

As I lay in my bed, I heard one of the roommates head into the bathroom.
Figuring he wouldn't be in there too long, I fired up a cigarette and waited
for my turn when it hit me like a fucking truck: this shit was not waiting. To
this point, I had barely talked to the guy in the bathroom, so I felt
uncomfortable pounding on the door- I was going to have to wait it out. Turns
out, that was the day he decided to take a 45-MINUTE SHOWER. I tried everything
to hold in this dump: standing with my sphincter clenched, sitting to hold the
poop in, jumping in place (I thought gravity might force it upwards back into
my intestines), but nothing was working. In my desperation, I took a look
around my room for a suitable replacement, and I saw it:

My tiny trash can.

I placed a grocery bag in the can to protect it, plopped myself down on the can
and let fly. The most unholy, liquid, satisfying shit came rocketing out of my
ass, and though the shame was starting to set in, the relief was too profound
for me to care. That is, until I felt urine splattering on my boxers, my feet,
and the floor. In my haste to sit down, I hadn't secured my dick, and it was
pointing over the edge of the trash can and spraying like mad. I angled it
down, finished my business, wiped with a napkin I found next to my chair,
cleaned up the piss, and briefly contemplated suicide.

I tied the grocery bag up and headed for the door so I could throw it down the garbage
chute; at that exact moment, the roommate emerged from the shower, blissfully
unaware of the atrocities which had taken place mere feet away. I couldn't look
him in the eye.